


Of Tinsel and Silent Nights

by christinefromsherwood



Series: Stories from the Horrid Name Bond!verse [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Action, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Music, Competent Q, First Kiss, Flirting, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mission Fic, Non-Linear Narrative, One graphic description of a violent act, POV James Bond, POV Q, Rated E to be on the safe side, Stand Alone, Vulnerable Bond, but also BAMF!Bond, but shouldn't be hard to follow, can be read as, he is a 00, it cant all be kittens and tea, there's time stamps, they do work for a spy agency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 02:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18929296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinefromsherwood/pseuds/christinefromsherwood
Summary: After an absolute clusterfuck of a rescue mission, Q waits for news and his agent to come home. Bond's having trouble lying on a stretcher and not really in a position to do so.There's tinsel, beer, Kalashnikovs, and kisses in this fic.4th installment in the 'verse; sequel toOf Red Poppies and Poppy Seeds





	Of Tinsel and Silent Nights

**Author's Note:**

> takes place a month after _Red Poppies_
> 
> (yes, it's the promised how-they-actually-got-together fic)
> 
>    
> knowing the previous segments gives the story more of an edge, but can totally be read as stand-alone  
>  _ **TRANSLATIONS** to all foreign words appear if you move your mouse over them_

###### Q

On the wall, among dark shadows, red-green flickers danced a slow sinister dance. The monitor blinked sleepily and provided the spotlight.

Blank and dizzy, Q watched the performance and saw none of it.

All around him was dark. No shadows to lengthen, no strips of LED to form into lean, anxious digits on the wall, no incessant ticking.

By the command of its Quartermaster, time had stopped in the underground labs of MI6. 

He had tried to lie down on the couch when he had dragged himself back to his office from the mission control. If only because Hadia had looked so worried when she’d come in to take Aggy for the night. But Q couldn’t abide staring at the ceiling on his back. So he sat there instead and watched the flickering monitor light reflect in the red tinsel and dark-green plastic needles in the far left corner of his office.

That was a very smart idea, to put the tree there out of Aggy’s reach. Bond knew best how agents thought after all.

Nothing to do, nothing to be done.  The comms had cut off. Signal interference from the airport. No eyes inside. Nothing.

But it _was_ over.

“Get some sleep, sir,” Hadia had said and turned out the lights.

Medevac was tricky on foreign soil, but Eve _had_ it handled. Q was certain that-

That was… how many hours ago?

No. It didn’t matter. It’d been just a little while. No time at all…

 _Zdrowaś Maryjo, łaski pełna-_ NO! Fuck that! There was no need for _that_!

Q dug the fingers of both hands into the cushion to stop them from tearing at his hair. He disliked feeling the three-day build-up of sweat and grease on his fingertips.

A kingdom for a bath, or even a shower! He hic-cupped a dazed laugh.

There had been no time…

They’d let him know. In a few minutes. Bill or Eve or someone. It’s only been a little while after all.

_RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!_

_“Trefil ses?! Sejmi ho, ty vole!_ _Sejmi ho!”_

RAT-TAT-TAT!

_“Oh for fuck’s sake-“ “Sitrep, 007!” “I’m going in, Q. Hillard’s fucked up.”_

_“Bond!” RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!_ “ _Shit, bugger, fuck!” BANG! RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!_ _GGGGGGGRRRRRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!_

_“Tamhle je další, Venco!_ _Střílej, kurva! Sejmi-”_

Q pressed his forehead to his knees and dragged in a rasping breath. He let it out slowly, and tried not to flinch at the high-pitched dog-like whine that tore from his throat along with the exhalation.

It’s only been a little while.

 _“Pierson?! What the hell’s happened, Pierson?!” “I don’t know, sir. My lines are dark!” “The order, Pierson! Why the fuck hadn’t your agent_ -“

He had to let them do their work. Someone would let him know.

Any minute now.

###### Q - 3 or 4 days earlier

“Oh, that… that absolute and utter twat!” Eve shouted over the din in the pub and took a long draft of her Dartmoor Best.

“Miss Moneypenny, I do declare!” said Bill from the chair beside her and, rosy-cheeked, eyes twinkling, fanned his face with a coaster.

Q grinned at Bill over his pint and tried not to blush, or look too delighted when Bond bumped their shoulders in shared mirth. The room was overcrowded and overheated, but Q could still feel the warmth of Bond’s skin through the layers of shirt, as he pressed against him.

He was suddenly very glad he hadn’t refused Eve’s invitation. Even if it _was_ the middle of the week, and he had been looking forward to a using up all of his hot water in the shower and then a quiet evening in front of the telly with Aggy.  

Even if it was the middle of the week, this was lovely.

Q hadn’t realised how long it had been since he’d gone out for drinks with friends. He had completely forgotten that he had always enjoyed such outings. That exhilaration, that freedom that came with being able to let go and relax with a group of people who’d rib you and tease you to no end, but at the end of the day listened to you complain and chipped in with the tab.

Bond was a new addition to their group, and the sight of him in his well-cut coat standing beside Eve and Bill, as they waited for him in the parking garage, had Q’s breath hitching in surprise. He fitted in seamlessly, though, and Q didn’t even try to suppress his delighted grin, when as he pressed against his arm, Bond answered with a nudge of his foot.

The pub _was_ quite overcrowded.

“What’s he done again?” Q asked once Eve put her glass down perhaps more vehemently than necessary, and it thudded against the table, the amber liquid sloshing against the sides and leaving behind white foamy streaks.

She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, and dragged her fingers through her dark curls. There was no need to ask her to specify who _he_ was.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I’ll just get angry again,” she said in quiet exasperation. Then shook her head, smirked and added: “And tonight is all about you, Q dear.”

Q tried very hard not to blush, as their attention turned towards him. He had known that it wasn’t a coincidence that they had chosen to go out in the middle of the week, even if none of them were on-call for any of the ongoing missions. But still, the idea of being fussed over, or singled out at all made him squirm just a little. He simply wasn’t used to it.

But just before he could truly start to blush and get into stumbling refusals of any special treatment, Bond opened his mouth:

“Yes, it’s not every day one’s quartermaster finally reaches the drinking age.”

Q sent a glare over the table at Eve and Bill who were unsuccessfully trying to hide snorts behind their pint glasses. Then, he searched his mind for a clever retort, but the day had taken its toll on him (003 had come in from a recon in Melbourne), finally he gave it up as a bad job and simply jabbed his elbow into Bond’s ribs.

“Ouch,” Bond yelped unconvincingly. Q rolled his eyes. He had not aimed particularly hard, or well. “The youth are so violent these days!”

“Yes, I’m the picture of a young hooligan,” he said in his primmest, poshest, most unimpressed tones, and fought a smile, as Bond continued to give him a betrayed look of pain, as he rubbed theatrically at the spot on his side. Q rolled his eyes and let his mouth drawl out:

“Stop being a baby, 007, or would you like me to kiss it better?”

There seemed to have been a lull in the din around them just then. Everybody must have heard.

Bond’s eyes darkened, sparkled, and Q was determined not to blush, only half-cursing himself.

It might have been the beer, it might have been Bond’s own playful mood that evening, but Q continued to stare him down in challenge. He felt his pulse pick up, and tried to keep his breathing steady.

Q’s chest rose and fell with quiet exhilaration. And he tried not to let it show, as he looked into Bond’s eyes again, and saw that the man hadn’t stopped watching him, looking at him.

It was the same look, as when in the morning he had suddenly appeared directly behind Q’s back. Q had been looking around his office frantically, trying to fend off Aggy’s attacks and searching for a place to put the miniature Christmas tree, because Hillard, the prick, had smirked and said that tinsel could kill a cat, and Q had googled it, and then Bond was there. Pressing against his back, reaching around him to take the tree, and then pressing closer still as he stretched to reach the top of the wall of cabinets, and then Q had turned around, and seen that look.

From the corner of his eye Q noticed Eve and Bill exchange significant looks. He could feel his willpower losing the fight with the heat in his cheeks. Bond opened his mouth to answer and Q suddenly realised that he really didn’t want to hear whatever it was Bond was about to say in front of their colleagues.

“Anyway, I’m thirty-one today, Bond,” he stated a bit shakily and, brain working at full speed, finally came up with a retort, which would have been so useful earlier. “If it’s my complexion that you envy and makes you think I’m just eighteen, I can only recommend a better hydration regimen and a check-up at Medical to up your monocle prescription, or whatever it is you senior citizens like to use.”

Eve giggled and the tension was broken.

Q sent her a grateful look from beneath his glasses. Then a knee bumped into his and Q let out a breath, and tried not to let his previously tense shoulders sag. It was alright.

“Enough about my birthday,” he decided. “Let’s talk about that prick Hillard.”

“What’s he done to _you_?” Eve wondered and leaned back in her chair.

“Scared the shit out of me, that’s what, coming in like he did and practically planning a cat funeral, because Aggy bumped her nose into my Christmas tree,” Q snorted out, and told himself he wasn’t being unfair. Sure, it was helpful information, but the man didn’t need to be such a—Eve was right—such a twat about it. “He actually honest-to-god twirled his moustaches, then he gave me his AAR, and guess what?”

“He wrote it on that fucking type-writer again, didn’t he,” Eve sighed resignedly. They exchanged commiserating looks. She too had to deal with 003’s smudged, typo-ed creations.

“But why?” Bill wondered helplessly, and turned to Q. “We issued him a tablet, didn’t we?”

“Of course, we did!” Q cried out indignantly. “He’s just a-“

"-a twat,” Eve interrupted, repeating emphatically. “I honestly don’t understand how he got to be a double-O.”

There was a beat of silence; then Bond hummed thoughtfully.

“He’s an excellent mimic,” Bond chimed in with an explanation. “He can be whoever he needs to be in the field. Take care of the target, step into his shoes for a week, fool anybody, then disappear. It’s just in real life that he’s a…”

He stopped and turned to look at Eve with an expectant grin on his face. She covered her mouth with her hands and giggled.

At this Q threw his head back and cackled loudly. And Eve always teased him about being a lightweight!

However, Bond’s arm had somehow relocated to the top rail of Q’s backrest and Q felt the back of his head brush against a well-muscled forearm. With a start he straightened at the shock of the contact.

“He _is_ a bit abrasive,” Bill admitted, and his eyes sparkled as they all turned to look at him at this understatement. Then he burst out laughing. “I know. I know I shouldn’t, but he is rather horrible. The first time we met, he interrupted me before I got two words out. Apparently it’s _i-lair- **d**_ , not-“

“Not Hillard,” they all finished together. That was a bit of a theme with the agent.

"It’s not even like he’s French,” Bill continued and clutched at his pint with artless bewilderment. “His first name isn’t Antoine, is it?”

He turned to Bond, who shook his head. Q couldn’t help his laugh at the pleading look in Bill’s eyes, this sent him bumping into Bond again.

Oh, but this was lovely.

He bit his lip and then daringly leaned more firmly into Bond’s side.

“That’s Tony Hillard for you,” Bond said, his body warm and relaxed. His voice was like dark honey and rumbled pleasantly all the way through Q's right shoulder to somewhere deep within his chest. “Ask Alec to tell you about him when he gets back. He’s got quite a few stories.”

Q’s mobile twittered from its place at the table. He picked it up distractedly and turned it over to look at the screen.

Then he felt Bond’s body tense suddenly against him. Q turned to give him a questioning look, and saw that he too had pulled out his phone.  Then two distinct beeps followed, that had Eve and Bill reaching for their pockets.

Well, fuck. So much for a quiet evening.

###### Bond

 

Bond turned his head from the round window. The airport lights gleamed and contorted into grotesque shapes behind the fat raindrops on the glass. It made his head spin to look at them. He closed his eyes. The air in the plane was stifling cold and slashed into his skin every time he drew a breath.

Christ, what a shit show.  

An icicle stabbed his right knee.

He lay on the stretcher and somewhere over his head, as though in the distance, he heard incessant beeping and the medical pomeranians barking orders at one another. Everything seemed strangely silent.

The comm in his ear was dead. He had kept it on, though. No one was allowed to touch it. Q hated it when he threw away tech mid-mission.

###### Bond: 2 days earlier

 

Alec’s room in Kaprova Street was a dead end. Other than his mobile and gun, all of his bags and tech were still there, undisturbed. Bond fought the urge to growl.

That was a good thing. Whoever took him hadn’t discovered his hide-out.

He sat down on Alec’s bed and grimaced as the springy mattress squeaked under his weight. He had to concentrate.

M hadn’t sent them out with much. Alec was sent to Prague for a quiet extraction of one of their moles in a local gang, which had been suspected of having strong ties to a British gun-running operation. He had arrived in the city on a commercial EasyJet flight (Bond pitied his knees), settled into the safe house, and that was the last anyone had heard from him.

The com in his ear crackled. Bond breathed out in relief. Finally, some news.

“What have you got for me, 007?” said the Quartermaster’s voice briskly.

“The safe house is a dead end, Q.”

 “The one in Kaprova?” came from the com. Q rolled his r on the last word expertly, and Bond was suddenly reminded of the fact that his Quartermaster had Polish origins. The two countries weren’t one and the same, but they _were_ neighbours and there had to be some similarity of language.

“Yes, ever been?” he asked. There was a distant sound of tapping keys, as Q replied distractedly:

“No, but I’ve done research for Mum when her department head sent her there for a conference at the university, and I’ve just had an idea…”

Q trailed off and there was more clicking. Bond got to his feet and walked over to the window to have something to do.

When he had first entered the room, he couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the wide expanse of glass, with blinds only half-way down. There were direct lines of sight from the roofs and upper levels of the opposite building, _and_ the Gothic tower in the square nearby. What had MI6 been thinking to make this a safe house?

“Any news from Hillard?” he asked. Q hummed, and continued tapping. In his mind Bond saw his slender fingers fly across the keyboard. He closed his eyes for a moment and turned his attention back to the window.

There was a street busker on the corner with multiple instruments around him playing a very modern rendition of Silent Night, which clashed with the fast rhythm of some American Christmas song coming from the speakers of an out-door restaurant seating opposite.

Sixth floor, and the sound still carried. Bond gritted his teeth, the windows were definitely not secure

“Not much. He’s tried to get close to the gang, but he doesn’t speak the language, which makes the use of his usual tactics a trifle difficult. His report was only that they all seemed excited about something.”

Bond clenched his fingers on the wood of the window sill. A bit of an old dirt-white paint flaked away under the pressure and fell to the floor.

“Yes, that does seem rather definite. But we need to be sure before…,” Q continued and then trailed off with a hitch in his voice. The tapping stopped. “Yes. I’ve got the CCTV footage.”

Bond held his breath.

“What happened?”

“They took him from the Old Town Square. The mole, Beránek, and a couple of unknown faces. There’s a Christmas market every December. Mum went. Absolutely packed with tourists. Mulled wine and Christmas carols blasting everywhere. It was an ideal place for a meet-up with the mole…”

“And a great place to set a trap for Alec,” Bond finished.

“What’s one more drunk foreigner with a couple of helpful friends to the locals,” Q added.

“Fuck!” Bond let out.

“Quite,” Q bit off. Bond could hear the tension in his voice. He stopped himself from immediately asking for more information.

This wasn’t nearly enough to go on. Bond breathed in through his nose, and then made himself look around the room, to see where Alec had stashed his arsenal.

“But where did they go? Where are they?” Q kept muttering through gritted teeth. “Where- Gotcha!”

“Yes?”

“I’ve got a number plate. Almasi and I are going to follow it up. Sumpter and Vaughan are running facial recognition on the two unknowns. I’ve got Umunna following Beránek’s movements over the last month, and Lakhani’s checking the background of all his known associates. We’ll get them, 007.” There was a pause in the barrage of information, as Q stopped, and then added in a quiet, but firm tone:

“We’ll get him back, James.”

###### Q: now

 

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, his glasses were digging uncomfortably into his cheekbone, and he was curled on his side on the sofa.

Heart racing, Q jumped up and reached for his phone. His shin hit the edge of a low cabinet, and Q hissed and cursed.

 _No new messages_ , said the lack of a reminder window.

 _5:15,_ read the large numbers above the Aggy’s ears on the screensaver. Q’s breath stuttered.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”

It’s been such a long time. What the fuck had happened?! Why hadn’t they let him know?

Eve coordinated the medevac teams, Bill was sent to sort out all the red tape and legal bullshit, and Q had tried to let them do their jobs. He knew that his part in this was over. He had tried-

But why hadn’t they let him know?

M and Bill had only barely managed to get the local agency to acknowledge the need for the exfiltration. Q’s agents had had no help coming from that quarter. Only the promise to have the police and ambulances on stand-by…

He dug his fingers into his hair and grimaced. In his left hand, he still clutched his phone and fought the urge to throw it into the wall. He had spares in the office.

He needed to destroy something. He needed to do something.

Q jumped to his feet and threw himself towards his desk. He couldn’t call them, couldn’t distract them, but he’d go crazy and…

He jabbed at his keyboard with stiff fingers, breathing heavily.

No official reports on the servers. He had expected that.

But there had been security cameras outside the warehouse.

Q bit his lip and closed his eyes.

“Fuck!” he rasped, then coughed and reached for his tea cup. It was empty. Naturally, it was empty.

He swallowed a couple of times drily, then he reached for the keyboard again, and pulled up the night’s footage of the camera B3G7.

 Nothing. A whole lot of nothing. There was no sound, so there was no telling what had been going on inside the warehouse at 20:12. Q growled and sped up the recording.

20:12. He still had the coms then. At least he thought so. The tension and action of the past days blurred into one haze of a racing heart, crackling comms and blaring monitors in his head.

20:45. Strange looking police cars and ambulances screeched to a halt on the screen, and Q slowed the recording to a regular speed. Just in time to see small grainy figures rush in, and rush out of the loading dock with four stretchers.

Fuck.

Q switched off the feed and began to shake.

###### 007: several hours earlier

 

Bond closed the heavy door behind him with a soft click, and tensed. Muscles flexing under the layers of the thermal and the turtle-neck, he waited for a response to the sound.

None came.

“I’m in, Q,” he murmured.

“Excellent, agent,” came from his ear wig. “What do you see? I have blueprints of the other Kněževes warehouses, but seeing as the gang is using this one as a front for their operation, they might not be a hundred percent accurate.”

“Right,” Bond replied. “I’m in a tiny hallway. With one door in front, one door to the left and a staircase to the upper floor. I got in through the staff entrance. I think. Do you have eyes inside?”

“Negative, 007,” Q replied immediately. “No cameras in what I assume are offices on the first floor, and strangely no cameras in the warehouse proper.” 

“Great,” Bond murmured and got a sarcastic chuckle in response.

“Can you hear anything?” Q asked.

“No.”

“Then I’d advise you to head upstairs,” Q continued. “The blueprints suggest that the corridor connecting the offices is not in any way soundproofed. They must be holding Trevelyan in the warehouse.”

“Then-“

“There should be windows to the warehouse space along the corridor,” Q continued, as though he hadn’t been interrupted.

“Copy that.” A vantage point.

Bond needed to move. If any of the doors opened, he’d be a sitting duck. He once again strained his ears and then headed up the stairs.

“Hillard?” he queried quietly.

“In the warehouse. He’s entered through the loading dock on the other side of the building. Pierson’s running him,” Q answered, and after a moment of Bond’s meaningful silence, added: “I can’t very well handle two agents at once, Bond. And Pierson was the only experienced handler available. Hadia’s an analyst.”

Bond took out his gun and suppressor as he neared the top of the stairs. The upper floor was dark, but Q’s blueprints were correct. There were large 5x3 foot windows along the wall separating the narrow corridor and the offices from the huge warehouse below. Through these windows odd light streamed in and illuminated the blue-green hallway carpet in strange patches, creating pockets of twilight and absolute darkness.

Had the man not moved to stretch his back from his slouch against one of the windows, Bond would have missed him.

He flattened himself into the shadows.

“Tango at 9 o’clock,” he informed Q under his breath. “Going silent.”

“Copy that.” The electronic hum from his earwig cut off. Q had muted the comm from his side.

Then Bond carefully eased his head to look again into the darkened passage. He counted seven windows between himself and the look-out, and, by the way the shadows lay on the floor, three open offices. The man was turned towards the window, craning his neck, staring into the light in the warehouse downstairs. Bond holstered his Walther and pulled out a knife.

It would be tricky. But any noise from a gunfight carried too much risk. It was just him and 003. Between them they didn’t have the firepower to take out an unknown number of assailants, and rescue Alec at the same time.

Bond let out one slow, noiseless breath, then he lowered his posture and transferred his weight to his toes. Then he slipped into the corridor. 

The man hadn’t moved, hadn’t heard him. Bond moved to the cover of one of the open offices, and took his time to analyse the target.

About 20, shaved head, bad posture, neck tattoo, military Kevlar vest, AK-47, red converse shoes.

Christ.

Bond stole back into the corridor and with carefully measured breaths moved swiftly forward.

Four windows, three windows, two…

Bond flashed forward, got his left palm over the target’s nose and mouth and slashed with his right hand. He clenched his teeth and swallowed against the sound the steel made as it slipped into skin, sinew, carotid artery and scratched against bone. He lowered the target to the ground and took the Kalashnikov off his shoulder.

He stood up. The night blared with silence.

“Tango down.”

His earwig hummed to life.

“Well done, agent.” Q’s voice intoned in his ear. Bond exhaled, his heart rate and shoulders easing after the risky manoeuvre.

“003’s got eyes on Trevelyan. What’s your position?”

“Three-quarters of the way down the corridor.”

Bond stepped over the body and the pool of dark liquid on the ground, took the position of the look-out and peered into the warehouse. Splashes of red sliding down the glass impeded his view. However, partially out of view behind one tall tower of crates and boxes, he could still see what must have been about fifteen men standing in a circle.

“There should be a door at the end of the corridor and a metal staircase leading to the warehouse floor. Two landings,” Q continued. “Hillard reports seventeen men and Trevelyan in a circle about halfway between your position and the staircase. AK-47 on seven of them, all of them have hand guns.”

That concurred with what he had seen so far.

“Copy that.” With careful strokes, Bond cleaned his knife. Then he slipped the AK strap over his shoulder, and hurried towards the door at the end of the corridor.

“Plan, 007? 003’s waiting for your orders.”

Bond stopped and looked outside the window directly in front of the scene on the warehouse floor.

Light from the huge skylight in the roof high above and from several film-set lamps on tripods around the group illuminated a man’s bare torso. Arms bound behind the back of the chair, Alec’s head was thrown back in pain, legs scrambling for foothold on the ground as one of the men bent close to his ear and with one enormous cable sent a bolt of electricity through his body.

“Hillard’s position?” Bond bit off quietly.

“Behind one of the crates to the left of the men,” Q answered immediately. “Your left.”

“003 stays put for the moment. When I get him cover fire from the staircase with my new toy, he takes out as many as he can and gets Trevelyan.”

“Copy that, 007. Relaying order.”

Bond clenched his jaw, took a deep breath and slowly let it out, as he waited for a second-hand confirmation. There had been no time for Q’s techs to coordinate the frequencies of the 00s communicators with each other before their diplomatic chartered plane took off.

After several long moments, Bond checked his six, then lengthened his step and moved swiftly towards the door.

He felt for the metal hinges.  Dusty, dry. That was not ideal.

Bond looked out towards the group in the warehouse, and inhaled. There was no other option. He had to wait for the head bastard to crush the cable against Alec’s side again. Then he opened the door and, to the sound of a strangled screech, crouched down on the landing.

Lying on the metal grate, Bond prepared his new automatic and chose the first target.

Suddenly a gunshot cracked through the air and the drug runners got on the move. The seven gunmen with the Kalashnikovs immediately tore them of their shoulders, and started shooting in Hillard’s direction, as they scattered behind the stacked towers of their product.

Bullets razed the cardboard boxes and see-through bags of white powder, the men yelled and shouted in Czech and Alec bound to a chair in the middle of it all.

 “Oh for fuck’s sake-“ Bond cursed viciously, put away his AK and jumped to the middle landing of the staircase. He could see Hillard on the warehouse floor, his Beretta out, running for better cover.

“Sitrep, 007!” Q barked in his ear.

 “I’m going in, Q. Hillard’s fucked up,” he grunted, as he prepared to rush down the last flight of stairs.

“Bond!” Q shouted in his ear, and Bond threw himself to the ground taking the steps by four. He crouched behind a tower of cardboard boxes with HLADKÁ MOUKA in large green capital letters.  There was another round of automatic gunfire, as the drug runners determined 003’s new position.

“Shit,” Bond cursed again, and then he saw the leader walk towards Alec and reach for his gun, and continued with: “Bugger, fuck,” as he pointed with his Walther and squeezed the trigger on instinct. The leader went down, thick cable still in hand.

He didn’t have time for a sigh of relief, though, as one of the henchmen abruptly turned around and let out a string of distinct words:  _“Tamhle je další, Venco! Střílej, kurva! Sejmi ho! Sejmi ho!”_ followed by a round of fire at his cover.

One cardboard box with HLADKÁ MOUKA in front of him blew up in a cloud of white powder and a piece of the flying cardboard struck his ear. Bond drew further back behind the boxes, as more bullets continued to rain down on his position.

The powder burned in his throat and lungs and Bond crouched down low and gasped as he tried to catch his breath and not cough.

“Q?” he rasped. “Hillard’s sitrep?”

Silence.

“Shit!” Bond hissed, as another volley of shots embedded itself in his cover and another cloud of the white drug rose in the air. “Q!”

Nothing.

Bond drew the collar of his turtle neck over his mouth and took the Kalashnikov off his shoulder.

He waited for a quiet moment, then peaked around his cover and pressed the trigger shortly. As his own bullets rained on the covers of the Czechs, he craned his head to catch a view of the chair Alec was bound to.

No luck.

Bond stopped shooting, measured the aisle between the stacks of boxes, then threw his AK around the other side, pressed the trigger again and ran.

A couple of bullets chipped the concrete close at his feet. Bond kept running and waited for the opening between the towering stacks that would show him where Alec was-  

The chair was empty.

The automatic clicked hollow and Bond dove under the cover of boxes unconvincingly labeled MÁSLO . He was just in time as a new barrage of bullets sent white powder flying through the air. His enemies had managed to reload.

His coughed, breathed shallowly through the sweater collar, and tried to formulate some sort of a plan of action.

It was excruciating. His mind was moving sluggishly, unable to focus on much except the black and white cow grinning deceptively from the box at his eye-level.

Alec wasn’t bound to the chair anymore. Hillard might have him. The mole might have him. The mole was smart.

Was he there? Bond wasn’t sure.

In her snowy white pasture the cow clanged the bell around her neck in the rhythm of the gunshots.

The leader was dead, but the mole…

The bells are ringing, the AKs singing, it’s Christmas time.

The mole…

###### Q: now

 

_“…zprávy od místních obyvatel… střelba ve skladech blízko Letiště Václava Havla… policie zahradila… teroristický útok_?”

Q stared at the eager young reporter on his screen. She spoke as though she wanted to pronounce all of her sentences at once, and Q understood only every other couple of words. The automatic subtitle transcription at the bottom of the video feed wasn’t having much luck either.

He had already gone back and forth on that stream several times. It was no use. He let her babble on, if for nothing else than the vague comfort her Slavic intonation provided as background noise.

Q took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. They burned and stung, and Q wished he could allow his heavy eye-lids to close over them to give them some relief.

 _006 secured_.

That was the message with which M had declared the mission over, and the Q-branch occupants of the control room dismissed.

Q pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and forced himself to inhale and exhale regular portions of air. He refused to think how long it had been since then.

Q could feel the bit of energy his nap had granted him dissipate, and groaned.

He had had some vague idea of pulling up the recording of the 003/Pierson line, and of figuring out what the fuck had happened, so he'd have someone to suggest to M as the prime candidate for being shot, court-martialed or demoted for gross incompetence.

But that desperate anger had long since left him and the idea of listening to the sounds of those deafening gunshots again, knowing that some of them might have hit their target…

“Aggy here?” rasped a voice from the door.

Q shot to his feet so fast his office chair flew into the wall of cabinets behind him.

That was- that _was_ Bond in the doorway.

He drew in a shaky breath and had to grip the edge of his desk to keep himself from swaying on the spot.

“No,” Q heard himself say, as he stumbled around the desk, his feet nearly tangled up in the strap of his laptop bag. “Just me.”

“Ah,” was all his agent managed to say before Q wrapped him in his arms and himself in the warmth of Bond’s heartbeat.

Q pressed his face into the crook of Bond’s neck, tightened his arms, and was home.

###### Bond

 

Bond had no idea how he got out of Medical and onto the lift to the labs. He didn’t recall much of the journey down. He knew simply that, when the doors had opened, he was already half-way through the empty dark garage before he first thought that the office he was going to might be equally empty.

Bond hadn’t even bothered to check the time before he set out to evade the medical night staff on instinct. He simply went, to hell with the burning stabs in his right knee.

Then he saw a thin strip of light coming from the crack in the door to his office, and felt the beginnings of a smile attempt to work his overtired facial muscles.

There was a thin figure hunched over at the desk in front of a flickering monitor. From the speakers, female and male foreign voices were leading a dialogue with the unmistakable intonation of engrossed, eager reporters.

Q was asleep and Bond considered turning around and leaving again, but when the Quartermaster let out a pained sound, and threw himself into the backrest of his office chair, Bond found himself stepping further into the room.

“Aggy here?” he asked on automatic, without thinking, and winced at the force with which Q’s chair rattled the metal cabinets when he flew upwards from his seat.

He was… Q.

In the same dark green jumper he'd had on Wednesday in the pub. The same long limbs in that jumper, the same mess of dark hair, glasses, eyes, lips. And Bond drank in the sight like a parched man finding water.

Suddenly, all that hair, glasses, lips were infinitely closer and Bond let out a gasp, when svelte arms wrapped around his body, and the precious entirety of Q pressed close against him.

Bond closed his eyes. He felt his fingers twist in the thick wool of Q’s jumper, as he gripped back tight and drew Q even closer. He buried his nose in Q’s hair and there was Q’s soap, salt, his very essence in that hair, Q’s glasses digging into his jaw and ear, and Bond was finally home.

For the first time since he’d entered that cocaine-infested hell of a warehouse, he could finally breathe.

Slender palms started to stroke a sure vertical path along his back and Bond trembled and swallowed down a sob. He buried his fingers in Q’s hair and clutched at him tighter.

“Q,” he said in a voice that wasn’t his, when Q raised his head, and Bond thought he meant to step away. But Q only hummed and hooked his chin over Bond’s shoulder and his hands hadn’t stopped their caresses even for a second.

“How’s your knee?” Q intoned, and Bond huffed out an approximation of a laugh, and answered quietly:

“It’ll be raining in a couple of hours.”

“The couch?” Q’s voice was like cream and strawberries in Bond’s ear.

He hummed his assent, and together they began to maneuver their way through the darkened office, illuminated only by the pale light of the monitor on Q’s desk. Bond dimly registered the reporters had said their professional goodbyes only when a soft familiar melody filled the air, and Q laughed giddily, as they collapsed on the couch cushions.

Still wrapped tight around each other, they listened to a young girl’s voice sing unfamiliar words in a high sweet voice. Bond stroked his right thumb over the short hair on Q’s neck, breathed and was at ease.

“Cicha noc, święta noc,“ Q joined in with the second stanza in a pleasant baritone, before his voice broke on a high note and he giggled again: “Sorry, can’t sing.”

“That’s alright,” Bond reassured him with a gentle caress behind his earlobe.

Q raised his head, and playfully, carefully as though Bond was a figurine spun from sugar, swatted at his shoulder.

There were entire symphonies playing in the shine of his green eyes, something glinted red in his hair. Bond reached with his left hand.

“You’ve got tinsel in your hair,” he said, as he pulled out several sparkling strands. Q cupped his palms around Bond’s hand and drew it closer. There were three stitches on the gash on the back of his thumb.

“You’re hurt,” he said with an almost accusing edge to his voice. Then he looked up at Bond, and his lips twitched at the absurdity of the statement.

There were red-green shimmers slow dancing in the far corner of the room, and Bond said with a wry grin: “Kiss it better?” then sucked in a breath when Q drew their joined hands up to his mouth, and pressed his lips to the left of the wound.

He looked at him, eyes all mischievousness and soft light, then leaned forward and up, and brushed a soft kiss under the scratch at Bond’s temple.

Bond’s left hand tightened around Q’s waist where it’d fallen, but before he could even think to drag the man forward, Q stroked his cheek with the back of his fingers, tilted his head and kissed him.

Bond groaned into the kiss, ran his right hand back into Q’s hair, pulled him closer. Q’s fingers were fluttering softly over his cheeks, before settling onto his shoulders.

In the room behind them, the slow Christmas carol changed into a faster melody, and Bond didn’t care. Q let out a deliciously surprised moan when Bond stroked his tongue over his full bottom lip.

**Author's Note:**

> About the setting:  
> 1) the building in Kaprova Street is one where I attended a couple of lesson in a strange satelite classroom of the Charles University in my first year, there was a shady hostel on the floor above  
> 2) yes, for all the Prague afficianados, the Gothic tower Bond sees is the famous Astronomical Clock Tower on the Old Town Square (the Christmas markets are also a real thing, the crowds are horrid and the mulled wine sold there simply awful)  
> 3) the Kněževes warehouses - also real, right next to the Prague airport; I go to one of them to teach English lessons in the office Bond hid in as he contemplated taking down the look-out; **DISCLAIMER:** the people I teach are the absolute favourites of all my students and to the best of my knowledge don't actually lead a drug-running operation
> 
> #### I hope you enjoyed this story. It's the longest, most involved one I've ever written, (except for my current 00Q WIP [_Acta non verba_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18977950)) and I had a blast with it. Please, let me know what you thought down below.
> 
> ##### Don't have enough? For more christinefromsherwood crazy, visit my [ Tumblr. ](https://christinefromsherwood.tumblr.com/about) That is the place you'll (eventually) find information about the creature that inspired the creation of Aggy, as well as my thoughts, hopes, dreams.


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